LOVELESS VOWS, BILLIONAIRE'S NIGHTS

So, picture this. I’m standing in the middle of a penthouse kitchen that’s prettier than my entire life. There’s marble. Like, actual marble. Shiny counters. Gold fixtures. A wine fridge I’ve never dared touch. And I’m barefoot in an oversized hoodie that definitely wasn’t meant to be worn in front of a husband like Charles. "You’re embarrassing," he snaps, pouring himself a whiskey because it’s 10PM and why not act like a villain from a soap opera? I lean on the counter, arms crossed, trying very hard not to throw the crystal fruit bowl at his head. “Embarrassing? Charles, I’m wearing a sweatshirt. That says ‘Let Me Sleep.’ It’s not a felony.” He swirls the drink, giving me his signature scowl. The one that says I make money, you make excuses. “I married a woman, not a teenage slob.” Ah. Right. The romance is dead. Again. “Sorry,” I say. “I must’ve left my pearls and shame at the dry cleaners.” That earns me a glare. Maybe a record-breaking one. Guinness should call. He storms toward the bedroom. I stand there. Heart racing. Chest tight. I’ve lived like this for two years. That’s 730 days of emotional pinball. Ding-ding-ding: anxiety, resentment, disappointment. Bonus round: invisibility. And something in me snaps. I grab the small suitcase from under the bed. The one I haven’t touched since our honeymoon. Which, for the record, was less ‘Eat Pray Love’ and more ‘Sulk, Sip, Silent Treatment.’ Charles returns, catching me stuffing socks into the bag. “What are you doing?” I zip it with flair. “Going to find my pearls and shame. Maybe a life while I’m at it.” “You’re not leaving.” “Oh, I am. I’ve rehearsed this in my head more times than you’ve checked your stock portfolio.” “Don’t be dramatic.” “Charles, I haven’t been anything for two years. I think I’ve earned one dramatic exit.” I don’t even wait for his reply. I walk out in socks, dragging a beat-up suitcase, dignity duct-taped together. The elevator ride is quiet. Too quiet. I try not to cry. Failing miserably. It’s raining. Of course it is. Because leaving your husband in the middle of the night needs atmosphere. Cue thunder. Cue slow piano music. Cue soggy hoodie and mascara that was probably expired anyway. I step out of the building and onto the sidewalk like I’m the sad heroine in a moody French film. That’s when a sleek black car glides to a stop right in front of me. Like, perfectly timed. I freeze, assuming the universe is finally sending someone to mug me. But no. The window rolls down. And inside is a man. A very handsome man. Because apparently the rain gods also moonlight as casting directors. He has dark eyes. Messy hair like he doesn’t care but somehow makes it work. And he looks amused. “You lost?” he asks. Voice low. Smooth. A little cocky. I blink. Then sniffle. “No. I’m fleeing.” His brow arches. “From...?” “My marriage. My bad decisions. My complete lack of an umbrella.” He smirks. Like he finds this charming. I guess this is Los Angeles. Chaos in heels. “You want a ride?” he says. I hesitate. Because Stranger Danger. Because True Crime podcasts. Because, yes, he’s hot, but also maybe he eats women. Then I look down at my suitcase, waterlogged. My hoodie, dripping. My phone, dead. “I don’t usually do this,” I say, inching toward the car. “That’s what makes it fun,” he replies. Okay, so I definitely shouldn’t trust him. But here’s the thing about hitting rock bottom: You get weirdly open to detours. I open the door and slide in. The car smells like leather and expensive decisions. He doesn’t drive off immediately. Just studies me. Like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. “I’m Drake,” he says finally. I look at him. “Evan.” “Interesting name for a woman.” “I was named after a soap opera character. My mom was...creative.” He nods. Smiles just a little. “Well, Evan. Where to?” I shrug. “Somewhere that’s not here.” His hands go to the wheel. “Then buckle up.” And just like that, I ride off into the rainy night with a stranger named Drake. This is the part where sensible people yell at me through the fourth wall. But let’s be honest sensible left the chat the moment I married Charles. We drive. It’s quiet. But not awkward. Drake doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t flirt either. He just...exists. Like a very well-dressed ghost. After maybe twenty minutes, he pulls into a parking lot next to a small, charming motel that looks like it belongs in a coming-of-age indie film. “Here,” he says. I blink. “You brought me to a motel?” He chuckles. “You said ‘not here.’ This is definitely not here.” Fair. He walks me to the lobby. Pays. Without asking. Hands me the key. Room 3A. I stare at him. “Thanks. I think.” “Don’t mention it.” He pauses. Then leans in just enough to make my breath hitch. “But if you survive tonight without calling your ex... I’ll consider it a win.” And he walks away. Just like that. Disappears into the night like some tragic novel hero. I get into my room. It smells like lemon cleaner and fresh hope. I sit on the bed. Try not to cry again. Then my phone miraculously revived buzzes. It’s a message. Unknown number. You looked like you needed a reset. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. D. I don’t. I absolutely do not know where to find him. But the message makes me smile. Which, considering the night I’ve had? Is borderline illegal.